


When Sherlock Married Sally. . .

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Drunken sex, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, International Fanworks Day 2015, Jealous John, Johnstrade, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage of Convenience, Morning After, Mutual Masturbation, Sherlally, Sherlock Experiments with Hetero Sex, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:50:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>University - AU</p><p>Sherlock marries American-born Sally so she can overstay her student visa. John's jealous. Greg catches him on the rebound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Sherlock Married Sally. . .

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket/gifts), [FervidAsAFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FervidAsAFlame/gifts), [foxy-voxy (voxangelus)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxangelus/gifts).



> This fic came about because, due to my poor planning, I had nothing to post on International Fanworks Day. So I asked followers of my fuckyeahfighlock tumblr to send me prompts. Several of them combined to make this story, which got away from me, and so STILL wasn't posted on International Fanworks Day. But whatareyagonnado?
> 
> I will never write unilock again; don't ask me.
> 
> I imagine that Sherlock and Sally are in their early 20s, John (and Stamford!) about 25, and Lestrade about 35.
> 
> WillieTPJ prompted: uni!John making a drunken pass at fellow student Mike Stamford.  
> Anonymous prompted: John punches a wall instead of punching Sherlock. (Also, John on a horse in space, FUCKING HAHA)  
> FervidAsAFlame/TheresACinematicEnd prompted: Sherlock/Sally.  
> An anonymous follower prompted: Jealous and insecure John + someone else's wedding.  
> Foxy-Voxy prompted: Johnstrade wake up together after drunken first-time sex

**_Sunday, 9:40am, John’s studio apartment._ **

His sour stomach and pounding head were trumped by a desperate need to piss, so John rolled out of bed onto still-unsteady feet and stumbled across the room to the loo. When he emerged, Greg—one eye closed, the other squinting against the sunlight coming through a slit in the curtains—was sat up in bed, his lower body covered by the sheet and coverlet, lightly-furred chest and muscular arms bare, except that his shirt still hung off one arm as if he’d been confounded as to how to get it all the way off.

John, himself completely starkers, went into a drawer for fresh pants as he said, “I guess there’s _one_ question answered about what went on last night.”

 

**_Sunday, 9:55am, a West End hotel._ **

“I’ve taken the liberty of updating your online journal with excited pronouncements of how wonderful the wedding was, how touched you were that so many friends came with kind wishes for a long and happy marriage, and how spoiled rotten you are that your “DH”—that stands for _dear husband_ —ordered you a gorgeous room service breakfast. ‘Perfect start to our life together!’ is how you put it.”

Sally, wrapped in a fluffy white hotel bathrobe, settled back on a mound of pillows, balancing a plate of syrup-drenched French toast. She figured Sherlock must have been up for an hour at least; he was showered, shaved, and dressed, tucking his shaving kit into his overnight bag.

“Join me? There’s plenty.”

“Thanks, no. I’ve got an experiment going that I need to add reagent to before noon.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Enjoy the rest of your morning; check-out’s at one. Call me later, if you want to.”

“Pass the remote?” Sally asked through a mouthful of her breakfast. Sherlock tossed it onto the bed, shouldered his bag, checked his hair in one of the many mirrors. As he was reaching for the door handle, Sally sat up a bit. “Hey. Sherlock.”

“Mm?”

“Thanks again.”

He smiled widely. “Least I could do for a friend.”

 

**_Six Weeks Earlier, lunchtime, university dining hall._ **

“I guess I just don’t understand why it has to be _you_ marries her,” John complained, shrugging as if it was no big thing, but with a glint of anger in his eyes. “Doesn’t Sally have some other friend who’s willing? Pretty girl like her. . .”

“That’s just it—I have no attraction to Sally, nor is there a risk of developing one. It’s the least complicated scenario for a sham marriage.” Sherlock was maddeningly casual, as if he were lending her a pencil instead of marrying her so she could stay in the country. “I’ve determined exactly what’s required to make it appear legitimate. After adequate time has elapsed, we’ll get divorced.”

“I wish you would have asked my opinion before agreeing,” John grumbled. “I thought we—I know we didn’t talk about it, say the words out loud—but—I thought we were. . .exclusive.”

Sherlock’s silver-green eyes narrowed, crinkling the bridge of his nose. “You’re jealous.”

“Well, yes, of course I am a bit.”

“You **_lurrrrve_** _meee_. . .” Sherlock teased with batting eyelashes.

“You’re such a child.” John crumpled his napkin and threw it on his tray of half-eaten food.

“Consider this good practice for me,” Sherlock went on. “For when I make you my second wife.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

John stomped away. Sherlock called after him, “Don’t be like that. John!”

John flashed his middle finger over his shoulder but didn’t turn around or even break his stride.

 

**_Saturday evening, in a pub, after the wedding._ **

John cornered Sherlock in the gents’, turning the lock so they wouldn’t be interrupted.

“So-there-now you’re a husband,” he slurred. “Howzit feel? Feel good?”

Sherlock pushed John’s shoulder. “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, I’m drunk, we’re celebrating! Mr and Mrs Holmes stood in the university chapel in front of god and his boyfriend and made a bunch of lying promises about ‘til death do us part.” John whirled his index finger in the air, _whoop-de-doo_.  “And so tonight we raise a glass to their long and happy fake marriage.”

Sherlock scowled, took John’s beer bottle from his hand and poured the dregs in the sink, ran the tap to refill it with water.

“We’ve talked and talked about this,” he said, thrusting the bottle at John. “This jealousy is utterly ridiculous. Drink that.”

“We’re on a break, Sherlock. You don’t get to tell me what to drink.” John took a long pull from the bottle, regardless. “Just tell me one thing. Just—honestly—because we’re on a break, but we’re trying to work it out, right?”

A flicker of pain flashed across Sherlock’s face. “Yes. I hope we can. I did this to help Sally. Not to hurt you.”

John put his hand on Sherlock’s arm, just above his elbow, and leaned close, as if he might kiss him. Sherlock held his breath against the fetid smell of alcohol in John’s mouth. “All right, then. Just tell me. Are you gonna fuck her?”

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Sherlock shrugged him off.

“Well, are you? You said you figured out what was needed. To make it look real. Like a real marriage.”

“This is not a time for us to talk about these things, John. You probably won’t even remember this conversation tomorrow, so let’s not even try.” Sherlock moved to walk around John, who stood between him and the locked door.

“Because if you do fuck her. Fuck a _woman_!” John barked out a laugh as if he were suggesting Sherlock fly to the moon and back by morning. “Well. I would not be happy with that.” John reached around to palm Sherlock’s buttock, digging his fingers in painfully, which made Sherlock shift his hips forward, pressing against John’s pelvis. John’s lip curled into a crooked smile. “I don’t want to share you.”

“You are completely ridiculous,” Sherlock scolded, and shoved him hard by both shoulders. “You’re so. . . _common_.” Acid dripped off the word. Sherlock knew—he _knew_ —people acting posh, looking down their noses at John, who came from a humble background, his father working himself half to death as a stonemason to make sure John got to go to university, and now to medical school, was always certain to get John's back up.

John’s voice became low and dangerous, and he backed Sherlock against a wall, penning him in. “What did you call me?”

“Forget it.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“I have to get back. You should go home; I’ll call you a cab. I’ll pay for it.”

“What, because I can’t afford a taxi? Because I’m so god damn _common_ , your highness?”

“It’s not what I meant.”

All at once there was a crashing, crunching noise beside Sherlock’s head and then John pulled his fist back and shook it, wincing. Sherlock turned to look; horsehair and lathe hung from a hole John had just punched in the wall.

“Let me out of here,” Sherlock demanded then, pulling himself to his full height and pressing one spidery hand against John’s chest. John didn’t resist, let himself be pushed away. He looked dazed.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry if that scared you,” he said.

“Go home, John.” Sherlock let himself out of the restroom, and John leaned against the sink, drinking water from his beer bottle, certain he had just bollixed up his last chance to ever get back together with Sherlock. Such a jealous idiot. Jealous of Sally! It was stupid. He’d call Sherlock in the morning, take him to breakfast, plead on his knees if he had to. At least they weren't taking a honeymoon (Sherlock had decided they could get by without it, since they were university students in the middle of term, and neither of them had money to spend on ‘a lavish sex holiday’).

In ambled a familiar, friendly face flushed pink with the heat of the party and probably not a little alcohol in his bloodstream.

“Oi, Stamford,” John muttered.

“Hello, John.”

“Don’t suppose you want to go home with me tonight?”

Mike looked boggled for a moment, but recovered quickly. “It’s flattering, but I think I’ve got something else in the works that’s pretty promising.”

“Right, then.” John tipped his bottle in salute, and shambled out. Just outside the door was that bloke Sherlock knew from the police, with the straight, white teeth and a bit of silver in his dark hair that made him look just a bit older than he probably was.

“I’ll go home with you,” the bloke said, and John squinted and then widened his eyes to make sure he’d heard correctly.

“What’s your name again?” John asked.

“Greg Lestrade. I’m a—" he gestured with an empty rocks glass, vaguely toward the bar. “—friend of Sherlock’s?”

“I know who you are,” John said. “I just couldn’t remember who you are.”

Greg laughed at that. “Anyway,” he said, and his gaze was so steady as to be nearly intimidating as he repeated, “I’ll go home with you. If you want.”

John looked him up and down. “I’m very drunk,” he said, as if in warning, though of what, he wasn’t sure.

“S’awright, I’m pretty blitzed, too. You’re cute, you know that?”

“Am I?” John grinned. “Am I cute?”

“Very.”

“OK, let’s get a taxi. I’m finished here, anyway.”

 

**_Saturday night, near midnight, a West End Hotel._ **

Whispering, in the almost-perfect dark, under the duvet with his huge hand on her hip and her toes stroking the hairs on his shin. He’s in soft pyjama bottoms; she’s wearing a short, plain nightie—no lace or peek-a-boo mesh, just cotton in a non-aggressive shade of purple.

“It’s all right if you don’t want to.”

“No. . .” He kisses her cheek, his lips are dry but soft, and he whispers so close to her ear. “I do. I want to.”

She closes her eyes, wants to pinch herself but instead lets her hand slide up the smooth side of his torso, over his pectoral muscle, to run her fingers over the ridge of his collarbone. He kisses her mouth then, and his lips are wet now—he must have licked them—and at first it is so sweet and so hesitant she wants to stop him. But she is so afraid that if she gives him another out, he will take it. And the truth is, she wants him. She has wanted him since she first laid eyes on him, wanted his huge hands on her body, wanted to feel his plush bottom lip between her own lips, wanted to hear the sounds he makes under a duvet, like this, in the dark, like this. . .

She opens her lips and ventures to press her tongue-tip to the seam of his lips, and they part for her. She shifts her whole body toward him, pressing up against his long, lean frame. They kiss a while, and their hands roam, and the kisses grow more urgent and they must now and then pull back to catch their breath, kiss an earlobe, nip at a jaw, inhale against a throat. She guides his hand from her hip to her bottom and he caresses, squeezes, slides long fingers under the hem of her nightie to touch her skin.

She reaches for the drawstring on his pyjamas, pulls the loops, and now they’re too warm so he throws the duvet off as she slips her hand down—tentative, learning the shape of him, slipping velvety skin over thickening tissue beneath. He gasps in her ear and it is just the thing she’s longed to hear—that rumbling voice, breathless. His hands are in perpetual slow-motion down her back, along her thigh, over and around her breasts, and she pulls at his shoulder. He follows and now she feels small and safe beneath the broad expanse of his shoulders as he leans up on one elbow and kisses her neck, between her breasts, slides his body down so he can kiss her ribs through the fabric of the nightie, then settle his cheek against the crease of her hip and thigh, and he hums a question, his breath on her low belly warm and damp. She rolls fingertips through his hair, opens and shifts her thighs, and he nestles between them, fingers first, so gentle, and she mews and then sighs and she wants to say something but she doesn’t.

Those fingers of his, sliding forth and then right over the spot that makes her shiver, gently parting her and then his tongue, soft, hot, so sweet, so. . .she thinks that _it’s like a kindness_. And then she feels his body shift a bit, and now his mouth against her is more curious—he’s tasting her, he’s learning her geography. She can practically hear him listening. She’s been holding her breath, but he makes a slow swerve and she releases an _aaahhhh_ that almost sounds like relief. He listens, she reacts (not staging it, just unguarded), he flutters and slides and nuzzles and circles, _circles_ , she digs her fingertips into his scalp, _circles_ , her back rolls up off the bed and he reaches for her hand and their fingers tangle together and she shudders and gasps and he stays with her through it until she settles, and he makes the most gorgeous sound low in his chest before he slithers his way back up to her, and he smiles at her in a way that is completely new.

“Was that. . .?” he looks away, still smiling, and—she never would have believed it—shy. “That was all right?”

“Lovely,” she murmurs, and strokes his shoulder, the curve of his tricep. She leans up to kiss his cheek.

“It was nice,” he agrees, and starts to lean away, going for his trousers rumpled on the floor beside the bed.

She reaches behind her head, beneath the pillow. “Right here,” she says, and holds the packet up between them, tears it from the corner.

“Mrs Holmes,” he says, mock-scandalised.

“Be prepared,” she grins as he takes it from her, kneels back between her thighs and does what he must. She looks and looks; he is so sleek and his nipples are hard and pink and his skin practically glows. She snaps a mental picture; she may never see it again.

Then he is hovering, and he kisses the corner of her eye, down by her ear, whispers, “You’re sweeter than I imagined you’d be.” She doesn’t care to clarify his meaning.

He kneels again, presses her knees back, and they both moan deeply as he settles into her. He curls forward so their foreheads touch, and begins to rock. A desperate grab for his jaw with both hands, and she pulls his mouth to hers and licks into him, tasting herself faintly on his lips and tongue, then falls away moaning as he rears back and starts to grunt around his heavy breath with each movement.

She slides her calves up onto his shoulders, shifting the angle, and he slows his rhythm, holds her ankle, licks her instep and then kisses where he has licked, again and again, and it tickles and makes her gasp and she licks her middle finger and slips it between their bodies to please herself. He hums, long and low, and she thinks she might die of it, sounds from him she has longed to hear, and he is rocking hard into her and for as long as it lasts, it feels like all of it could even be real.

A series of deep shudders that arch her toward him, and his fingers slide across and around her breast, soft and quick, and she is whining at a volume she would be self-conscious about if it wasn’t so good, so good, yes, yes, oh yes, _oh_. . .

It makes her feel flirty and languid. She smiles tipsily, encourages him with a stream of dirty talk, pinches those pink nipples of his, then locks her hands on his thighs and pulls and pulls and _pulls_ with him until he stills, and shouts, and then whimpers, and she lifts her head to kiss him before he slips away—making her whine at the sudden absence—and rolls onto his back beside her. They catch their breath, and he kisses her temple and rests one hand on her hip, then gets up and crosses to the bathroom.

“The water’s a bit soft—salty—so if you’d rather the bottled stuff—“ he has brought her a glass of water and a hand towel. She can’t stop smiling at him; he is so very unexpected.

“It’s fine. Thank you.” She sips, sets the glass on the table, rearranges her nightie up over her breasts, down over her bottom. He fetches his pyjamas from the floor and steps into them, resumes his place beside her and draws the duvet back up to cover them. Two cuddled-up kids in a blanket fort under the dining table on a rainy afternoon. They sprinkle fluttery, nearly-chaste kisses on each other’s faces and fingertips and stroke each other’s shoulders and wrists and hair. She murmurs. “Why did you--” She looks away, then back at the glow of his pale eyes. “Want to.”

“Because I know you wanted to. And I like you. And why not?” He grins.

“And _how_ did you know I wanted to?” she asks then, teasing, but honestly curious.

He just looks at her, in that way he has that says everything is obvious and doesn’t need explaining.

“And you’ve always been a good friend to me,” he adds. “And.” He pauses so long it’s as if there is nothing else.

“And?”

He leans back a bit, not far, but he needs a little space with this. She tucks both hands, palms together, beneath the side of her head. It’s so late now; she’s sleepy.

“And I wanted to see if I could be, you know, _normal_ for a bit. I’m the identified freak, because of my intelligence, and I’ve gleaned that I put some people off. Most people. Nearly all.”

“And do you feel more normal?”

“No. I feel the same. Except now I’ve had sex with a woman.”

“Experiment done then,” she smiles; she understands him, at least in this moment. It can’t be easy for him to say these things. Who knew he even cared what other people thought? He has never acted as though he does. He is such a puzzle. “Just write up the lab report and you’re through.”

“Don’t think I won’t,” he jokes quietly, and yawns.

“Anyway,” she says, and reaches her arm across his chest, and he rests his hand on her forearm. “You’re not a freak. Or if you are, we all are.”

“Hmm.” She can practically hear the gears grinding as he turns this over in his mind.

“G’night,” she whispers.

“Mm.”

 

**_Saturday night, half-ten, John’s studio apartment._ **

They snog in the back of the taxi all the way to John’s flat, and between them have just enough cash to fling at the driver before stumbling up to John’s second-floor studio— _so many stairs!_ ; quiet, there are neighbours; _jeezus your arse in those trousers_ ; for fuck’s sake _shush_!—and crashing through the door, a tangle of limbs and sloppy wide-mouthed kisses as they half-undress each other on their way through the room to the bed.

Greg scrambles backward, back against the wall (John’s bed lacking a headboard) and he looks at John undressing by the foot of the bed like he is _starving_ and John is going to be fucking _delicious_ ; he actually licks his lips when John tugs his shirt up and off over his head, the shape of his pecs under his vest is crazymaking, perfect.

John, so sodding drunk he is sure he will fall over if he lifts one foot to step out of his trousers, raises an eyebrow and offers a, “Hmm?” as he reaches for his belt.

“Yes, all of it off,” Greg encourages. “Quick as you can.” He has tugged off his own shirt and it hangs from one arm where he couldn’t quite undo the cuff-button but fuck it. He unfastens his trousers and shoves them down—pants and all—only as far as he can reach without really moving. He manages to toe off his shoes and they fall off the edge of the bed, _thump. . .thud_.

John shucks his trousers and boxers in one go, just lets them fall and manages to free his ankles from them as he crawls up the length of the mattress toward Greg, one knee between Greg’s knees, and kisses him hard, growling desire into his mouth. Another clumsy rearrangement of limbs and he is kneeling, arse-up and face-down in Greg’s lap, spitting on Greg’s invitingly stiff cock, then using his tongue to distribute it. Greg presses the back of John’s shoulders and grunts loudly at the shock of pleasure.

All reflexes dulled by excessive alcohol consumption, John takes Greg deeply into his mouth without hesitation, stretching his lips, jaw instantly aching and oh how he loves that ache. “Condoms?” Greg suddenly remembers to sputter, and John grunts in the negative, filling his mouth and throat with Greg’s prick. Greg rests one hand on the back of John’s head, lets his own head loll back and sideways against the wall. He closes his eyes, but it starts the room spinning so he opens them again.

After several circuits up one side, around the crown, a slow, deep slide, then back, then down the other side, John leans up, swipes the back of his hand across his chin.

“Fucking gorgeous, that was,” Greg mutters, and wraps his fist around his cock, slick and slippery with John’s saliva and copious pre-cum. “Kneel up here, I want to see you pulling on your prick.”

With a messy, crooked grin, John straddles Greg’s thighs, his thick, blue-veined prick hovering over and beside Greg’s as Greg continues to stroke himself lazily, in no hurry to finish.

“Whisky dick,” John half-apologizes, and licks his palm and fingers before taking himself in hand.

“Christ, there’s more?” Greg’s eyes widen. John presses their mouths together and their tongues vie for dominance, thrusting and swiping against each other. John lets out a long moan.

“You’re a fantastic fucking kisser, Constable,” John growls, and goes at Greg’s mouth again, and all the while their hands are moving, sliding, bumping each other at the knuckles and wrists as they stroke themselves. “It’s making me so fucking hard.”

They both glance down and Greg sucks in a breath at the full measure of John’s manhood now on display, sticky and red at the crown, heavy and impossibly thick under his fingers. John leans back to support himself on one arm, arching his back and thrusting his pelvis forward.

“That’s bloody gorgeous,” Greg says then, and his own pace picks up as he watches John jerk himself, there in his lap, watches the twitch of his bicep, the twist of his wrist, that way he licks and licks his lips like he can’t _keep_ that damn tongue in his mouth, and the vision before him, and the recent memory of John’s mouth on him, and the string of John-related fantasies he has kept on file in his back-of-mind wank bank since first meeting him all cannonball together at once into the sloshing pool of gin in his head, and Greg comes, groaning, _hard_ , in pulses that paint John’s thigh and Greg’s hand.

Greg pants and groans, tries to catch his breath, runs his hands up and down the sides of John’s thighs, growls encouragements. “Yeah. That’s it. Show it to me. Yeah. Fucking amazing; I’d love to fuck you while you pull like that.” John whimpers throatily. “Yeah? You’d like that? You like to get fucked?” John nods, his tongue between his teeth, eyes closed, forehead sweating. “Soon, then. Will you let me lick you out first? Before I fuck your pretty little arse?”

“God!” John shouts, and comes over his own belly and all the way up onto his chest, heaving panting breaths and collapsing backward, stretching his bent knees gratefully, flattening his feet against the wall beside Greg’s hip. He drags the bed sheet across his torso to clean himself up, then his thigh where Greg’s mostly-dried spunk clings to the hairs along his quadriceps. Good enough.

John turns himself the right way round on the mattress, finds the pillows and arranges them. Greg sheds his trousers and slides down flat on his back beside John. “Stay, if you want,” John offers, and yawns.

“Yeah.”

 

**_Sunday morning, 9:45 am, still John’s studio apartment._ **

Greg is reaching for his clothes; John sinks onto the edge of the bed and braces his head in his hands.

“Fuck me, I’m still drunk,” he says.

“Lucky you,” Greg replies. “Got any paracetemol?”

“Yeah, in the cupboard there over the microwave.” John gestures vaguely. Greg has got his boxer briefs on, still trails his shirt off one arm as he crosses to fetch it. He takes a mug out of the little sink, checks it for cigarette butts and, finding none, fills it with cold water. He throws back three pills.

“You remember.  . .?” Greg ventures.

“Bits and pieces,” John admits. “I think it was safe, anyway.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“Good.” John sinks down on his side on the bed. Greg starts to put his trousers on.

“I thought you were. . .” he starts. “Seeing Sherlock?”

John grimaces. “Not exclusively, that’s clear. Now he’s married a _girl_.”

“But for her to stay in England, yeah?” Greg prompts.

“That’s what I’m told. I’m such a jealous arsehole I’m sure I won’t be seeing him again, wife or no.” John buries his face in the pillow slip, tries to rub away his drunkenness. “I fucked that up, but good.” He rolls over, extends his hand to Greg. “It’s what it is. Forget it. Come back to bed and sleep a bit more.”

Greg looks skeptical.

“Is this--?” He drops his trousers back on the floor, regardless of his protest, and unbuttons his cuff so he is finally free of his shirt. “It’s a rebound thing?”

“Dunno,” John admits. Greg sinks back into the bed and John snuggles up to him, chest to shoulder and knee to hairy, muscular thigh. “No. Sleep. Then I’ll buy you a fry-up and we’ll figure it out.”

Greg lets his eyes fall shut.

“And yes, by the way,” John murmurs against his ear. “Yes, is the answer. I will, yes, I will let you lick me out before you fuck me.”

 

 ** _Five years after the wedding, late afternoon, condemned flat in a terrifying neighbourhood_**.

“Just sign it, Sherlock, please.”

He is muddy-eyed but there is a cruel set to his lips despite his spacey countenance.

“If I don’t?”

Sally crosses her arms. “I’ll call your brother, tell him where to find you.” She looks around, trying to breathe shallowly through her mouth because the place reeks of piss and body odour and a sharp, stinging chemical smell she knows but won’t name.

“My brother knows precisely where I am, I’m sure,” Sherlock says, and has the nerve to sound bored. He demands again: “If I don’t?”

“God, you’re an arsehole. I’m sure you think you know. Think you’ve—wha’ever— _deduced_ it.”

“You’ve met a man you think could be the one for you, the right one, the _real_ one. He’s a banker, but nothing flashy, something mundane like a branch manager for a small chain of banks, makes a decent living, keeps normal hours, wants children— _someday_ —and every other Friday he takes you out to a mid-level restaurant (order off a menu but no cloths on the tables; nothing exotic, probably traditional French, Italian, or English home-style) then to a film, where he falls asleep and then asks you what happened on the way home. He knows you’re American by birth and that you came here as a student at seventeen, but it’s never occurred to him to ask the details about how you managed to stay so long after your student visa must have run out. Long enough to gain citizenship. Long enough to become a police officer in Her Majesty’s service. You think if he finds out about our marriage it will hurt him, he’ll feel lied to, because lies of omission are still lies—“

“Fuck’s sake! Sign the fucking thing!”

“And you meant to tell him long ago but by the time the time was right to tell him, no, it was too late to tell him. What a complicated little life you’ve made for yourself, Mrs Holmes.”

“Yeah, and you’re doing really fucking well, Sherlock—mayor of Meth City.”

“This is a shooting gallery for heroin addicts; the meth heads are two doors down. Do your research.”

“It’s not as if you want to be married to me, Sherlock; we’ve barely spoken in three years.” She tries to keep the hurt out of her voice in favour of her extreme annoyance that he won’t just sign the papers dissolving their marriage: no fault, irreconcilable differences, he’s an active addict, she’s a cop, it can’t work.

“He’s not the one,” Sherlock says, and slumps, and closes his eyes. He all but shoos her away.

“That is not for you to decide, you arrogant prick!” she shouts, and actually stamps her foot. “Why do you always have to do this? You play with people like they’re puppets or something. What do you even get out of it? What possible purpose could it serve for you to make me miserable?”

“Take me to court.”

“You know I can’t afford that. And anyway—“ She hates to admit it, but the wind is out of her sails now. Soon she will have to resort to pleading. It makes her chest hurt just thinking about it. “You’re right. He doesn’t know. And I don’t think we’d survive it, if he did.”

Sherlock, eyes still shut, smirks. Sally wants to scratch his face.

“You’ll thank me,” he says.

Sally throws up her hands. “You really _are_ a freak. You’re a power-hungry, manipulative fucking _psychopath_ , Sherlock.” She throws the folded stack of papers at him; it hits his chest and lands in his lap. He doesn’t flinch. “I can’t believe I ever thought of you as a friend. You don’t have friends. There’s something wrong with you.”

“So I’m told,” Sherlock says, and finally opens his eyes. He gestures around the room—walls graffiti-covered, boarded-up windows, a skinny cat skulking by with eyes just like his: clear green, narrow, and icy.

“I will never forgive you for this,” Sally says. “I hate you. Fucking _die_ here, Sherlock. Make me a widow so I can get the hell on with my life.”

She storms out, down the crumbling stone stairs to the pavement, and she will not cry. She will not. She will not let this freak get the best of her. She will. not. cry.

****

**_Ten years after the wedding, first light, 221B Baker Street._ **

Sherlock,

Greg gave me your email address. I’m sure he’s mentioned I’ve been in Afghanistan. Doctoring. Got a bit exciting for a few minutes back in March, and now I’m finishing my convalescent period at an American base in Germany. Can’t do field surgeries anymore; full range of motion in the shoulder, slightly diminished capacity in the lung but that’s neither here nor there, arm’s pretty strong—but my hand’s a bit trembly, itches a bit. They don’t trust me with a scalpel (frankly, I don’t trust myself, but we’ll blame them). So. They’re sending me “home.”

Maybe you heard, maybe not, my mum died about a year after I last saw you. Not much home to come back to when you’re a single bloke, and an overgrown orphan to boot (Harry’s Harry—no help there, nor any expected). Greg said you maybe could use a flat mate? I know it’s a lot to ask.

Think it over a bit; I’ve got a few weeks yet before I’m back. If nothing else, we should get together, have a drink or a coffee—just catch up. I hear you’re doing all right, doing some work with the police, private investigating? Sounds interesting; I know how you always hated to be bored and that sounds anything but!

I think about you now and then. . .always have done. Wish you well, of course. Really would love to see you again.

Best,

John

 


End file.
